


Freddie Bloody Mercury

by aroseofstone (Adams1422)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 21:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20071048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adams1422/pseuds/aroseofstone
Summary: Crowley's plan to make Aziraphale jealous backfires.





	Freddie Bloody Mercury

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! Here I am writing yet another pairing that I never expected to write!! This got written really fast, actually. In the matter of a day! I have enjoyed it thoroughly. I hope I did their voices at least a little justice. It's always scary writing a new couple for the first time!! 
> 
> HUGE thank you to obliviousaziraphale for looking at this and giving me feedback!! You're mad rad
> 
> (For the record, I adore Freddie Mercury and would take a bullet for him any and every day)

Jealousy is an emotion that Crowley is all too familiar with. Mostly because he’s a demon, a tempter, he’s jeered on that little green-eyed monster in more humans than he can count. But, loathe as he is to admit it, he also has _personal_ experience with the blessed thing.

He’d been baffled by it for the first millennia or so. Couldn’t fathom why his chest felt so tight when a certain angel let his gaze linger too long on a human. Why his ears felt so hot and his hands began to shake when that very same angel wouldn’t stop banging on about the _clever little storyteller he met in that village just over there_.

And then, one day, it clicked. He was egging on a woman whose lover had finally agreed to marry a man from the neighbouring village. Doing his best to get her to get so lost in jealousy that she would cause a marvellous scene at the wedding. The more he hissed in her ear, the redder her face got. Her hands were shaking, breathing heavy. Eventually, she did something that shocked Crowley. She collapsed to her hands and knees, weeping and begging him to end her suffering. To just help her forget. Forget about her love, forget their past. To somehow, _someway_, help her be happy marrying the nice bloke who had pursued her for as long as she could remember. In that moment, Crowley realised that what these two women had was far deeper than the fleeting affair he originally assumed it was.

After thousands of years Crowley’s still never forgotten the agony on her face. It was exactly the way he felt, deep in his damned, blackened soul, when he thought about Aziraphale looking at other people the way he looks at Crowley, sharing bits of himself with them that Crowley wants to be _his. _Horror grips him. _Oh Satan, I’m _jealous.

In the end, he got rid of the fiancé and helped the women run away together, ensuring that they would live in comfort wherever they went. For purely sinful reasons, of course. The fiancé was less than pleased once Crowley was done, to say the least. That man’s ire, the hell he raised when he was stood up at the altar and all the misery he caused in the days following, had been a small feather in his wing.

After that, it was easier to identify the emotion in himself. It doesn’t happen too often. Oh sure, now and then some new brilliant mind explodes onto the literary scene and Crowley has to do everything short of physically restraining himself to keep from sending them to the Antarctic. But, in general, Aziraphale is a remarkably focused creature. When he’s with Crowley, he gives him (and whatever dinner they’re inevitably enjoying) his full attention. More often than not, Crowley is the source of his own jealousy. His traitorous thoughts are what do him in every time. He imagines Aziraphale sidling up to the likes of Oscar Wilde, honeyed words turning the angel’s spine to jelly, fingers trailing over the backs of hands, fluttering eyelashes and stuttered breaths and flushed cheeks.

Crowley snarls, the plant mister in his hand shattering.

“Oh, bless it all,” he mutters, fixing the mister with a roll of his eyes. Oscar Wilde has been dead for over _seventy years _and blood still roars in Crowley’s ears every time he thinks of the tosser. And anyway, as far as Crowley knows, Aziraphale never even _did_ anything with him. From what he’s been able to wheedle out of the angel over the years, Aziraphale and Wilde had been friends, as close as he ever let himself get to any human. They had lunch and discussed his works and that, according to Aziraphale, was it.

Suddenly, Crowley wonders if angels are capable of jealousy. Would his face flush, would his hands tremble, Crowley wonders, if Aziraphale thought that Crowley had a new _friend_ of his own? Something deep in Crowley’s chest positively purrs at the thought.

* * *

“Have you heard of Freddie Mercury?” Crowley asks, casual as you please. He’s lounging on one of the cushy chairs in Azirapale’s backroom, one leg tossed over the arm. He wriggles a little as he waits for Aziraphale to respond.

“Hm? Freddie who, dear?” he asks, looking up from the novel he’s perusing. Crowley’s heart nearly stops in his chest at the soft smile that spreads across the angel’s face when their eyes meet.

“Freddie Mercury,” Crowley says again, clearing his throat. He has the distinct impression that if he were capable, his palms would be sweating. “He’s a singer in a band. Probably the most popular band on earth right now, actually.”

“Oh, no, you know I don’t listen to be-bop,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle.

“Queen is _not _be-bop, angel!”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Aziraphale murmurs, flipping the page and turning his attention back to the novel in his lap.

“Freddie Mercury is one of the most brilliant minds of his generation,” Crowley asserts, growing ever more desperate for Aziraphale’s full attention. The angel’s eyebrow ticks up, his lips purse. Crowley can feel a babble coming on, but he can’t hold it back. Anything to spark an actual reaction from his angel. “He – he’s written some of the most beautiful, poignant songs that have ever existed. Queen crosses genres and masters them all like no other band ever has. Not to mention the sheer unmatched genius that is ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’_._ He’s not bad on the eyes, either. And his sense of fashion! Definition of boundary-pushing, he is.”

“_Unmatched genius_?” Aziraphale splutters, setting the thick novel down with a heavy thunk. In an instant, all emotion drains from his voice. His expression goes flat. “I’ve never heard you speak about _any_ human that way. You must be rather… taken with this Mr Mercury.”

The warmth burning in Crowley’s chest shrivels in an instant. He hadn’t expected an explosion of passion from the angel, of course not, but he’d hoped for _something. _The smallest indication that he did care, that he did feel at least a _fraction_ of what Crowley feels for him.

Tears burn behind Crowley’s eyes and, for what must be the millionth time in his existence, he’s grateful for the dark shades that allow him to hide so much of himself away. Shame floods his entire system as the realisation that he truly has been fooling himself for 6000 years dawns on him. He’s never been able to shake the feeling that, deep down, Aziraphale might share his feelings. He couldn’t outright admit it, of course he couldn’t. Crowley would never expect that of him. It’s almost been enough just believing that they were on the same page. That all of the little glances they shared meant the same thing for both of them. That when their fingers brushed as they passed a bottle of wine back and forth, it set Aziraphale’s unnecessary heart fluttering like it did his own. But he’d got it wrong.

“Yes, well,” Crowley mutters, standing up abruptly. “Maybe I am. In fact, I think I’m late for a meeting with _Mr Mercury _as we speak. If you’ll excuse me.”

He rips out of the room, tearing through the shop and out into the Bentley.

_Love of my life, you’ve hurt me_

_You’ve broken my heart, and now you_ –

“Oh, shut it,” Crowley snarls, snapping the radio off with a flick of his wrist.

* * *

“Unmatched genius,” Aziraphale spits again. “Since when does Crowley think _any _human possesses _unmatched genius_?”

He throws the book down on the table beside himself and stalks out of the bookshop, locking it behind himself with a click of his fingers. It doesn’t take him long to make his way to one of those music shops that Crowley is always wiling away in. Glossy magazines line the outer shelves and he searches through them until he sees _Queen_ emblazoned on one of the covers in bright red letters. A man with sharp, mischievous eyes stares back at him from the cover. He snatches the magazine up, flicking through the pages to get to the cover story.

That’s him, then. Freddie bloody Mercury. He’s the opposite of Aziraphale in almost every conceivable way, of course. Tan skin and dark, slicked-back hair. A thick, black moustache on his upper lip. He’s made of hard, lean lines, a square jaw, wide mouth. Not to mention the fashion that Crowley was apparently so fond of. He wears blue jeans tighter than Aziraphale believes he’s ever seen, a white vest top stretches across his chest. A spiked belt and armband accent his outfit. In some photos, he’s utterly topless, covered in a sheen of sweat, clearly singing his heart out.

The magazine turns to ash in his hands.

“Oh, dear me,” he says, looking around to see if anyone noticed. When he confirms no one is looking, he miracles the magazine back into existence, not noticing that he accidentally changed the cover so that Mercury has fluffy blond hair and a sensible overcoat, and puts it back on the rack before turning about-face and trudging back to his bookshop. 

* * *

Aziraphale is not above admitting, in the safety of his own mind, that he’s feeling rather heartbroken. He just doesn’t know how he’d gotten it so wrong for such a long time. He’s never been able to pinpoint when he’d fallen in love with Crowley, but he knows the exact moment the love grew too large for him to continue fooling himself. 1941. When Crowley, his very adversary, had put himself through physical pain and risked being destroyed entirely just to keep Aziraphale from making a fool of himself. On top of that, he’d saved all the books. The books that Aziraphale himself had forgotten about in the flurry of making sure that Crowley came out of the bombing unscathed.

_Little demonic miracle of my own._ The tenderness in his voice. The little smile playing at the edges of his mouth. _Oh,_ Aziraphale had thought, _that’s right. Of course. I’m in love with you. And I think you’re in love with me, too._ And that had been it. All of the glances and invitations to lunch when they had no business to discuss and favours done expecting nothing in return suddenly made sense. He wasn’t sure if Crowley was _really_ aware of the fact that they were in love. Aziraphale had been in denial about it for nearly 6000 years, after all, but he was sure, deep down, that Crowley loved him.

Until now, that is. Until Freddie bloody Mercury. Aziraphale sees Mercury everywhere he goes. On billboards and magazines and telly. When he closes his eyes, he sees the pianist’s delicate fingers carding through Crowley’s vibrant hair. He imagines their limbs twining together, Mercury singing songs to Crowley that he’s written just for him. It makes him feel physically ill. Mercury is everything Aziraphale will never be. He’s modern and bold and lean. His wit is sharper than any human has a right to possess. Quick on his feet, he always seems to be two steps ahead of everyone in the room. According to every account he can find, Freddie Mercury lights every room he enters on fire with the sheer force of his personality.

Aziraphale can’t reconcile how Crowley could possibly love them both. Aziraphale lacks every quality that Crowley had gushed about. He would certainly never be comfortable wearing tight leather trousers and showing off his chest to millions of people. He can’t even _sweat._ And he absolutely doesn’t enjoy the chap’s music. Aziraphale isn’t sure whether it’s the music itself, or the fact that he imagines Mercury sitting at a piano, plucking out the chords and singing the words into Crowley’s ears every time he hears one of the damned things.

He hasn’t seen Crowley since their altercation about Mercury. He’s just about to break, to pick up the phone and beg Crowley to go out to dinner with him when the phone rings. He snatches it up.

“Hello?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says. There’s something in his voice that Aziraphale can’t put his finger on.

“Oh, hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says. He’s caught between elation at hearing his demon’s voice and terror that if they meet up, he’ll have to hear more about Mercury_._

“I was wondering whether you wanted to try that new sushi place near my flat? Looked like the kind of place you might enjoy.”

“That would be lovely,” he responds, unable to say anything else.

“I’ll pick you up at the bookshop in fifteen minutes?”

* * *

Crowley had meant to stay away from Aziraphale for much longer. Really, he had. But a few weeks in, he was going out of his mind. At a certain point, it’s either take another century-long nap or go to dinner with his angel.

After a week of sitting in his pitch-black bedroom, he decides that it doesn’t matter whether Aziraphale loves him back. It certainly can’t change the extent of his feelings for the angel. Nothing can. After 6000 years, Crowley is confident of that, at least. He figures that being with Aziraphale in whatever capacity the angel was comfortable with will just have to be good enough.

“How have you been, then?” Aziraphale asks as the server walks away to put their order in.

“Oh, you know, same old,” Crowley says with a vague gesture. He hopes Aziraphale doesn’t ask for details, because he hasn’t come up with a story for what he’d spent the last few weeks doing and_ crying in my bedroom over you not loving me back_ just doesn’t have the right ring to it.

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale says. A small, awkward smile ticks at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve been spending most of my days trying to track down a first edition of _The Book of the Duchess _that’s rumoured to be floating around Cardiff.”

“Oh, really? That’s one of Chaucer’s, isn’t it?” Crowley asks, leaning forward on his elbows. He makes a mental note to do his own poking around and make sure that the book ends up where it needs to be. “I’m sure it’ll turn up soon.”

“I do hope so, I’ve nearly got a full set now.”

“Yeah, you’re only missing, what, two of his now?”

Something strange filters behind Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley can’t even begin to put a name to it. The angel nods, biting his bottom lip.

“That’s right,” he says. He takes a sip of water and breaks eye contact to stare over Crowley’s shoulder.

Thankfully, the server returns with their food and the awkwardness hanging over the table finally breaks. Aziraphale wriggles and hums and dips his sushi delicately into the soy sauce provided, savouring each and every bite. As usual, Crowley is done with his food in a matter of minutes. He learnt long ago that the quicker he eats his meal, the longer he gets to stare at an utterly enraptured Aziraphale with no interruptions. It’s the closest he can get to heaven since his fall.

After a good few rolls have been put away and Aziraphale has had a decadent piece of chocolate cake, Crowley signals for the bill. He pays, leaving far more cash than necessary to cover their costs as he and Aziraphale stand in unison.

“Back to your place?” he asks casually. Aziraphale positively beams at him and it takes every ounce of his demonic powers to keep his knees from buckling beneath him.

“I think that sounds nice.” 

* * *

When they get into the back room, Aziraphale puts on a record of Bach’s more obscure pieces and they settle in with a bottle of wine between them. Crowley pours them both a generous glass and sinks back into one arm of the couch, staring at Aziraphale on the other side from behind his glasses. A couple of drinks in, his glasses come off. He can’t ever seem to keep the damn things on his face once he gets a bit of alcohol in his blood. Something deep inside of him wants Aziraphale to see his eyes. To see _him_. And for him not be disgusted by what he finds there.

“I do so enjoy it when you take your glasses off, my dear boy,” Aziraphale whispers, so quietly that Crowley very nearly misses it.

“Y – you do?” he stutters, sloshing wine out of his glass when he sits up straight.

“I, erm, I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” he says. A light flush creeps up his neck, and Crowley could swear he sees a slight tremble in his hands.

“No! No, I don’t mind,” Crowley says, shaking his head. “I never thought… well, my eyes are so…. Y’know.”

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale says with a nod.

“Right – wait, what?”

“They’re beautiful, isn’t that what you were going to say?”

“I bloody well was not,” Crowley says, baffled. “I was going to say... demonic, or – or snaky, or hideous –”

“There’s nothing _demonic_ about your eyes, Crowley! And there’s certainly nothing hideous about them! They’re beautiful and I won’t hear another word against them.”

“Well,” Crowley mutters, his cheeks flaming red. “There is _something _demonic about them. Something demonic about all of me.”

“I know that isn’t what you meant,” Aziraphale murmurs into his wine. Crowley doesn’t respond. Because Aziraphale is right. He had meant that he can hardly stomach looking at them for how _evil_ they look. One might think that a demon would be quite proud to have such strikingly evil eyes. Not Crowley. He’s always rationalised that they make it harder for him to fit in with the humans he tempts. What it comes down to, what everything in Crowley’s existence comes down to, is that he never meant to fall. Never meant to be _evil._ He feels it the most when he looks at Aziraphale. Those clear blue eyes. The light that he exudes. Ethereal in every sense of the word. He can admit it to himself. Not out loud. Never out loud. Demons do not pine for the days before their fall. But he can imagine how much easier it would be for them if he had just never fallen. If he’d kept his mouth shut and let the humans suffer on their own. There’s absolutely nothing wrong about two _angels_ loving one another.

“How is your Freddie, then?” Aziraphale asks, cutting across Crowley’s rambling thoughts. There’s a certain resolve on his face that Crowley doesn’t understand.

“My what?” he asks, relieved for the change of subject.

“Mr Mercury,” Aziraphale elaborates. He won’t meet Crowley’s eyes. “You mentioned him the last time we saw one another?”

“_Oh_, Freddie! I dunno, he’s fine, I guess,” Crowley says with a shrug. “Touring the world, I expect. I haven’t really spoken to him in a while.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” Aziraphale says. He doesn’t sound very sorry at all.

“Why?” Crowley asks, his brow furrowed.

“Well, it just sounded like you two were… like you were… well, you know. Together. I’m sorry to hear you’ve, well, that you aren’t anymore. I imagine it must be painful.”

“What are you on about? Where in Hell would you get the idea that Freddie Mercury and I were _together_?” Crowley feels like he’s been suddenly tossed into an alternate universe.

“Well, from you, of course,” Aziraphale says with wide, confused eyes.

“_Me_?” Crowley asks, his voice shooting up several octaves.

“You told me that you were meeting him when we last parted, Crowley. You couldn’t shut up about how brilliant and beautiful he is!” Aziraphale nearly yells, clearly frustrated with Crowley’s bull-headedness, which confuses him even more.

“I don’t give a damn about Freddie bloody Mercury, Aziraphale,” Crowley says with an incredulous laugh.

“Oh, come now, Crowley, you don’t have to lie to me about it. There’s nothing wrong with getting attached to humans.”

“I said what I said to make you –” Crowley cuts himself off, snapping his mouth shut.

“To make me what?” Aziraphale asks. His voice is soft, but it’s very clearly a command. Those blue eyes are burning with intensity. He won’t let this go. _Bless it all._

“To make you jealous,” Crowley says, his voice breaking.

“Why would you want to make _me _jealous?” Aziraphale stutters.

“Because I’m in love with you, you blessed idiot!” Crowley explodes. Aziraphale freezes in place. “Clearly it didn’t work, you didn’t even care. Not in the slightest bit. So I went back to my flat to stew in misery for a few weeks. I always kind of thought… deep down, maybe you… Well, regardless, it’s okay that you don’t.”

“That I don’t what?”

“Love me. No, really, take that look off your face. I don’t need you feeling guilty over something you can’t control. I doubt an angel is even able to… to feel that way about a demon.”

“You think I don’t love you?” His voice is faint, a look on his face like he’s miles away, stuck in that beautiful head of his.

“Can we just pretend this never happened? Please? It’s really fine. I’ve been handling it for 6000 years. I can keep –”

“Would you _please_ shut up?” Aziraphale snaps. Crowley’s teeth click together as he shuts his mouth.

Slowly, Aziraphale leans closer, one hand coming up to rest on Crowley’s jaw. Crowley’s entire body shudders at the contact.

“Aziraphale, what are you –”

“Shh.” His other hand creeps up and finds its way onto the other side of Crowley’s face. “I’m going to kiss you. Is that okay?”

Crowley sucks in a breath and nods his head minutely. And just like that, Aziraphale’s soft lips are pressed against his. Crowley gasps, his mouth opening beneath Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Crowley follows his lead with enthusiasm. His hands work their way into Aziraphale’s fluffy hair and Crowley nearly weeps at the feeling of the soft strands against his skin.

Without much conscious thought, Crowley inches forward until he’s sprawled on top of Aziraphale, their lips still moving languidly together. His warmth radiates into Crowley’s body, nearly making him writhe with pleasure. Aziraphale’s thumbs caress Crowley’s jaw with such tenderness Crowley thinks he might discorporate.

After a while, Crowley pulls back. Aziraphale is a vision beneath him: cheeks flushed, lips swollen from _Crowley’s_ kisses, hair a complete disarray.

“So, do you, erm… feel the same way?” Crowley whispers. One might expect the angel beneath him to laugh, make fun of him for asking such a stupid question. But he knows Aziraphale understands. He knows that Crowley needs to hear the words. A serene smile spreads across his lips. He leans up and presses three soft kisses against Crowley’s lips. Then he moves on to his cheeks, peppering kisses there.

“Crowley,” he whispers, still peppering kisses over his entire face, “I love you.”

“And to think we have Freddie bloody Mercury to thank for this.”

“Do shut up, dearest.”

And then Aziraphale takes it upon himself to make sure that Crowley doesn’t speak again for quite some time.

**Author's Note:**

> (Also, it's marked canon divergence because I really believe that in the show C/A become canon after the entire affair, but I really wanted Freddie to be the source of jealousy here! So yeah it's just a slightly different universe where, instead of the apocalypse being the thing to give these two a wake-up smack, it's Freddie bloody Mercury)


End file.
